WHEN THE WATER COMES

by Rajat Chandra Sarmah

This is not news to us.
It rains.
Then it rains more.
The river climbs the banks like a thief at night.

We don’t ask, Why is this happening?
We ask, How high this time?
We know the drill—
Carry the old woman upstairs,

tie the goats to the roof beam,
Put the school books in plastic.

My cousin’s house floated away last month.
Just slid into the Brahmaputra,

quiet as a boat pushing off.
The calendar was still on the wall—
June.

Floods are disasters for us.
But calendars for them.
They know when to show up.
Photo op. Speech.
Same promises, reshuffled.

Bangladesh, Bihar, Assam—
The same story,
different screens.

Sometimes I sit by the window
and wonder—
Is the river tired of carrying us?
Our plastics, our lost shoes,
our drowned gods?

The water comes again.
It will come next year too.
I don’t know anymore
If I should swim
Or just stand still.

Rajat Chandra Sarmah is a poet and writer, and a Fellow of LEAD International. a global network focused on leadership and sustainability. After a 36-year career in India’s power sector, he now focuses on poetry and literary writing. His work explores environmental crises, cultural inheritance, and personal memory.

THIS COUNTRY IS NOT FOR WOMEN

by Pulkita Anand

Is India a Safe Place for Women? Another Brutal Killing Raises the Question. The rape and murder of a trainee doctor at her own hospital has brought up, once again, uncomfortable truths about a country that wants to be a global leader. —The New York Times, August 22, 2024

This country is not for women
Its daughters are scared in the womb
This country is not for women
Its wives are pleading for their lives
This country is not for women
Its sisters are trampled by its brothers
This country is not for women 
Its friends are betraying and selling friendship
This country is not for women
Its air is filled with lust
Where leery eyes want to defile innocence
This country is not for women
Its voices are crushing their voices
This country is not for women
Its growth lies in pushing them in the name of culture
This country is not for women
Its men feel pride in demeaning them
This country is not for women
Its fathers are not desiring their daughters
This country is not for women

Its character lies in cursing them

Pulkita Anand is an avid reader of poetry. She has translated one short story collection Tribal Tales from Jhabua. Author of two children’s e-books, her recent eco-poetry collection is we were not born to be erased. Various journal publications include:  Setu Journal, Shortstory Kids, The Criterion, Twist and Twain, Tint Journal, Indian Ruminations, Langlit, Ashvamegha, Lapis Lazuli, Conifer Call, The Creativity Webzine, WinC Magazine, Stanza Cannon, Superpresent, Madwomen in the Attic, Poetica, The Uglywriters, Impspired, Literary Yard, Academy of the Heart and Mind, Kritya, The Amazine, Carmina Magazine, and Asiatic.

NUMBERS GAME

by Gifford Savage

Rihanna, Mark Zuckerberg and Ivanka Trump among bevy of stars at Indian billionaire heir’s pre-wedding bash… —CNN, March 4, 2024

Antilia Tower stands 27 stories high,

a $1b phallic tower of Babel.
3 helipads, 168-car garage, and 9 elevators
lifting bling to all-time-low levels of excess.
Cool air soothes in the snow room,
countless artificial snowflakes give sweet relief 
while the heat ripples visible on the streets below.
Rihanna sings, “We Found Love,”
the $100m, 3-day long pre-wedding party swings,
21 chefs conjure up 75 types of dishes for breakfast
225 types for lunch, 85 for a midnight feast.
Money can’t buy you love,
but it means 1,200 guests
don’t have to suffer the same meal twice.
Ivanka, Tendulkar and Bill toast the happy couple,
Priscilla Chan fawns over the groom’s $1m watch
while Zuckerberg agrees, Watches are cool.
In the shadow of the tower
2 million children die every year in India’s slums,
one every 15 seconds,
400,000 before the sun sets on their first day.
Faces turn away,
nursing their bacchanal hangovers,
looking forward to the wedding proper in July.
Rihanna did not sing: “Take Care.”


Gifford Savage’s poems have been published in various journals, including The Storms, The Bangor Literary Journal, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Agape Review, and previously in The New Verse News.

ON THE ARREST OF A DOMESTIC ROCK DOVE

by Matthew King

A pigeon that was captured eight months back near a port after being suspected to be a Chinese spy, is released at a vet hospital in Mumbai, India, Tuesday, Jan.30, 2024. Police had found two rings tied to its legs, carrying words that looked like Chinese. Police suspected it was involved in espionage and took it in. Eventually, it turned out the pigeon was an open-water racing bird from Taiwan that had escaped and made its way to India. With police permission, the bird was transferred to the Bombay Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, whose doctors set it free on Tuesday. (Anshuman Poyrekar/Hindustan Times via AP via ABC News, February 1, 2024) 

It’s said, when Noah’s ark had run aground

but water stretched far as the human eye

could see, he sent a dove out as a spy.

Her first sortie betrayed for miles around

no evidence of anything undrowned,

but with another week for things to dry,

and Earth to soak in hues of sun and sky,

she brought a sprig of leafy green she found.

The world may end, depending on a word.

We all know, if not why, a dove is meant

to signal peace, so let’s rename the bird

and think, if we would like, it might be sent

to fight for land or money or religion:

that’s no dove, it’s just a dirty pigeon.

Author's note: A Taiwanese racing pigeon, which had been detained in India for eight months on suspicion of being a Chinese spy, was released last week. (In 2020 Indian authorities arrested a suspected Pakistani spy pigeon.) "Pigeon" is another name for domesticated rock doves, and the idea of a spying dove, for me, recalls the bird Noah sent from the ark to see if there was anything alive in the world. The image of the dove returning with an olive branch is of course a widely recognized peace symbol, used for instance in the logo of the annual UN-sponsored International Day of Peace. In light of so much going on in the world, including struggles over naming things and what follows from our naming of them, it is darkly fitting that a dove by another name would be mistaken for a hostile agent.

Matthew King used to teach philosophy at York University in Toronto, Canada; he now lives in what Al Purdy called "the country north of Belleville", where he tries to grow things, counts birds, takes pictures of flowers with bugs on them, and walks a rope bridge between the neighbouring mountaintops of philosophy and poetry.

THE SAGA OF AN ABANDONED PUNJABI BRIDE

by Vivek Sharma

They Married for a Life Abroad. But They Never Saw Their Husbands Again. —The New York Times, June 14, 2023.

 

Thousands of brides in India are being abandoned by their British Indian husbands after they are married. Despite this, there is evidence to suggest that Indian women are continuing to fall for British suitors. —BBC News, November 23, 2009.

In Candana, England, called Vilayat,
      My husband abides alone,
                   or with another,
he visits me sometimes in winter,
       some years, not at all,
                   and I live with his mother.

I am a middle-aged Punjabi dreamer,
      I practice English at home,
                tears smudge my notebook.
He promised me a visa and visits,
      but what if they were gambits
                 to freehire a family cook?

Jede Chadd ke chal gaye ne,                                       
         Mawan, dhiyan, khetran, gawan nu,                     
Undi raah kyun takdi aye,                                              
kyun aaun ge o tainu le jawan nu?                              

 

Those who have abandoned mothers,
         fields, daughters, villages, and gone,
Why do you wait for their return?
        Why would they take you along?

Occasionally, he calls from Vilayat,
       sweet-talker, whiskey breath,
                  I crave his love and sweat,
I rage, and he lends me an ear,
      tells me he hates it there,
                but says he hasn't made it yet,
I feel fallow, tell tales to my buffalo,
     she moos at my discontent
              and the choleric of my kith and kin,
prevents me from calling him a rogue,
     though he has left me to wither here,
             though he has left me alone.

Jede Chadd ke chal gaye ne…                                       
        Those who have abandoned us and gone…

Throughout Punjab, we are scattered,
        throughout Punjab, we are alone,
        why did you wed us?
        Why did you leave our home?
What good is the foreign penny,
       slavery of foreign tarts and pimps?
       Come back, o black-hearted,
       Come back to our sweet home.

Jede Chadd ke chal gaye ne,                                       
         Mawan, dhiyan, khetran, gawan nu,                     
Undi raah kyun takdi aye,                                              
kyun aaun ge o tainu le jawan nu?                               

Those who have abandoned mothers,
         fields, daughters, villages, and gone,
Why do you wait for them?
        Why would they return to take you along?

Your forefathers fought invaders,
       never quit, never let their land go,
kept heads high in proud turbans,
       never balked or gave their women woe.
“O Ranjheya, your banter: how do you translate it?
      Your Punjabi heart-to-heart: how do you communicate it?
Are you legally there? Are you really there?
      We are aging. We'll die. When will you ever make it?”

Jede Chadd ke chal gaye ne…        

                             Those who have abandoned us and gone…

But what can I say, had you stayed back,
       I would have urged you to leave,
when destiny calls with dollar bills,
       staying back for mud-dung is grief.
But I was wrong, marjaaniyan
      how I wish he were never gone,
I know he must be more miserable,
      at least I am in my home,

What pagli is this 'lady',
      lives in a world of make-belief,
if the bride was ever worthy,
     why would the groom ever leave,
But tell me what I must do,
     but tell me where I can go,
In this dust, I must live and die,
    maybe after death, reunite in a Canadian home.

Jede Chadd ke chal gaye ne...                                       

Those who have abandoned us and gone…

Vivek Sharma's first book of verse, Saga of a Crumpled Piece of Paper (Writers Workshop, Calcutta, 2009), was shortlisted for Muse India Young Writer Award 2011. His work in English appears in Atlanta Review, Bateau, Poetry, The Cortland Review, and Muse India, among others while his Hindi articles and verses appear in Divya Himachal (Hindi newspaper, India), Himachal Mitra, and Argala. Vivek grew up in Himachal Pradesh (Himalayas, India), and moved to the United States in 2001. Vivek is a Pushcart-nominated poet, is published as a scientist, and he lives and teaches chemical engineering in Chicago.

IMPRESSIVELY LATE

by Harsimran Kaur

Several women’s organisations across [India] have opposed the government’s move to increase the age of marriage of girls from 18 to 21 years, which has been ironically touted as a measure of women’s empowerment. … Similarly, ‘Young Voices: National Working Group’ formed in response to the task force, comprising 96 civil society organisations, in its report published on July 25, 2020, had also opposed this move. The report brought out after surveying about 2,500 adolescents across 15 states stated, “…Increasing the age of marriage will either harm or have no impact by itself unless the root causes of women’s disempowerment are addressed.” —Flavia Agnes, “Increasing Marriage Age for Girls May Only Strengthen Patriarchy,” The Times of India, December 19, 2021

my friend got married at seventeen

in a gurudwara

singing the hymns her mother sang some

twenty-five years ago

on a cold day in January

her henna – impolite

her body wrapped in Red

her tiny legs blurting out of her salwar:

“maybe it’s too soon.” i don’t know

her forehead smeared in red

eyes black, cajoled

driven out of existence.

all i know is that she is my friend

who loves Jell-O, baked cookies & comfy blankets

i don’t know who taught her marriage

i didn’t know a red bindi on her forehead before

& seven pairs of bangles made from glass

hanging loose from her wrists

two for one.

brought from the corner shop with no name

i didn’t know red grew in a land that

burns, buys, believes, blue

& meanders our lives 

like the Ganges

Harsimran Kaur is a seventeen-year-old author of three books. Her work has been recognised by The Royal Commonwealth Society, Oxford University Press, and the International Human Rights Art Festival. She is currently a senior in high school in India.

IN FIVE STEPS: THE ROUTE TO ESCAPE MARTYRDOM

by A. C.

1.     Do Not Mourn. Especially faces who have long endured

old style glass frames in spectacles. Glasses foraying into

the future, your uv tinted ones can never hope to testify

about. Vision for the sake of the land forsaken kind.

‘Deprived of rights over natural resources’ kind.

 

2.     Do Not Hope. For the Mahars (you are allowed to read

the fine print spelled D-A-L-I-T) to be commemorated

in reverence of plaques. For the girl whose soul may still

hope to rise from the well to testify in court. For people

giving their lives to see they live or die a notch better.

For the law to be your friend. Or for anything that may

well feed your spine. With the contraband fruit of justice.

3.     Do Not Plead Not Guilty. You are, for the matter. Guilty

of unlawful actions unheard and unseen of. Till one evening

men and women in uniform storm your doors, seizing you

by the collar. Or wait till you survive the guilt

once your child points at the face of an old grandfather

permeating all over the news.

Let them ask you then, “aren’t we taught to respect our

Elders”?

 

4.     Do Not Feel Shame. For watching over typed phrases, statements

and words supposed to inform you. Of an octogenarian’s contraction

of something the world understands as pandemic. But within custody

of course, disease runs trivial. What’s Parkinson's anyway?

Just another condition, neurodivergent, doesn’t kill eh!

So, up to you to believe or refuse if the octogenarian

had his share of sippers, straw, medicine and treatment

in custody! Lucky if you believe, sad if you do not!

 

5.     Do Not Think. Let your cognitive power focus upon

your yoga sessions, parallel world of a post pandemic vision.

Trips to catch up, the how to of a self-reliant nation. Who cares?

of UNDP rants on sustainable development, inclusivity of the

indigenous population? There are governments for that, honest

and fair. Meanwhile sleep peacefully, Human Rights often fear

the ivory towers.

Author's Note: Father Stanislaus Lourduswamy breathed his last in judicial/government custody after spending his entire life working for the uplifting of the Adivaasi community in India (especially in Jharkhand). He prepared a report titled ‘Deprived of Rights Over Natural Resources’ highlighting the plight of the Adivaasi landless population. He had been implicated in a case under the Unlawful Activities Prevention Act (UAPA) still pending in court and kept in jail despite his age and other pre-existing health conditions. His death in custody speaks volume of the present situation of democratic dissent/treatment in the country.

A. C. writes from India. Her work has appeared in The Alipore Post, Life and Legends Journal, and elsewhere. She has been a contributor in an anthology titled Narratives On Women’s Issues In India: Vol 1 Domestic Violence published by the IHRAF, New York and a global feminist anthology, Looking Glass Anthology Vol. 2. 

THE SACKING OF DELHI, 2021

by Joy Dehlavi

Photo by Joy Dehlavi while delivering baked goods to an oxygen camp with medical personnel and Sikh volunteers.

Timur-lane rides again,

to gut the golden bird;

Dilli my jaan

will have the last word.

With just a smidgeon

of his novel potion;

The bandit can bludgeon

an entire nation. 

Bringing no horsemen

with bow and scimitar;

He leaves hordes behind

in Samarkand durbar.

Of defending Delhi,

they have lost all clues;

India’s overlords

charading as world gurus. 

In cold corrupt hearts,

no patriotism stirred;

Dilli my jaan

will have the last word. 

The billboards are huge,

but the vision small;

The news is fake

and economy in free fall.

Bumbling babus

and malicious middlemen;

Let native immunity wane

and bastions broken. 

Timur plots unguarded

burg’s checkmate;

He gently lets loose

the taj plague outbreak. 

Setting sight on crowds,

the virus veered;

Dilli my jaan

will have the last word. 

Lethal contagion wafts

in balmy breeze;

Hard to hide,

from its viperous squeeze. 

Smiting shanty and manor,

mandir and masjid;

Slithering softly with breath,

a malady horrid. 

Froth-corrupted lungs

straining for breath;

Denied relief or air,

no dignity in death. 

Stranded on sidewalks,

calling to be cured;

Dilli my jaan

will have the last word. 

Smoke chokes the city,

from roaring fires;

Trees turn to timber,

feeding endless pyres. 

Remorseless racketeers

cashing in on misery;

Floating carrion speak

of untold butchery. 

Widow women, orphan kids,

aged losing help;

The tormented hear

forsaken pariah's yelp.

Isolation and penury,

pestilence delivered;

Dilli my jaan,

will have the last word. 

Donning face shields 

and suits of plastic armor;

An army arrives

to battle the vile vapor. 

Feeding, sanitizing,

testing and vaccinating;

All castes come together,

in fraught fighting. 

Selfless service ingrained

in their blood;

Steely sardars serve

oxygen to the cursed. 

In succoring the sick,

they dread no hazard;

Dilli meri jaan

will have the last word. 

Ceding sleep and lull,

medicos risk their all;

Even chiefs fall

to the jagged green ball. 

"No one sleeps"

tending the breath machine;

"I will win," says

the nurse to spike protein. 

Hours sweltering,

in stifling protective gear;

They keep on healing,

feeling no fear. 

Dehliwallahs rise up,

audaciously undeterred;

Dilli meri jaan,

will have the last word. 

Soulless charlatans

getting masses misled;

Crack crack crackles

the sky over their head. 

Profiteering politicians

filled with conceit;

Thud thud trembles

the ground under their feet. 

Timur finally falls,

to the common cold;

Heart of Bharat beats,

beautiful and bold. 

With head held high,

it moves forward;

Dilli meri jaan

will always have the last word. 

Author's Note: Dilli is another name for the city of Delhi. "My jaan" means "my life" in Urdu and Hindi. Usually used to address a lover. "Meri" is Hindi for "my". As the poem takes a turn and starts describing positive things that are happening around me, I change to "Dilli meri jaan" as a more intimate way of refering to the city I grew up in. There was a tourism jingle " Dilli meri jaan" used to promote the city to foreigners about 30 years ago. Most people in Delhi or Dehli still use this expression to express their love for the city.

Glossary:

·      Babu - A mid to low level government functionary or clerk (Hindi)

·      Bharat - Another name for India (Hindi)

·      Burg - Medieval fortress or walled city

·      Caste - Stratification system in Indian society with some history of difficulty in working together.

·      Dehliwallah - One who belongs to Dehli/Delhi (Hindi/Urdu)

·      Durbar - Royal court (Hindi/Urdu)

·      Mandir - Place of worship for Hindus (Hindi)

·      Masjid - Place of worship for Muslims (Hindi/Urdu)

·      Native immunity - Scientific term for innate resistance to infections

·      Sardar - Members of the Sikh community known for their courage and charity (Hindi/Punjabi)

·      Taj - Crown or Corona (Hindi/Urdu)

 

References explained:

·      “Crack crack crackles the sky over their head” and “Thud thud trembles the ground under their feet” —Adapted from Urdu poem “Hum dekhenge” by Pakistani poet Faiz Ahmad Faiz. Frequently used as protest anthem against government policies.

·      “Froth-corrupted lungs” — From “Dulce Et Decorum Est “ by Wilfred Owen. Author described effects of poison gas on unmasked soldiers during The Great War.

·      “No one sleeps” and “I will win”— Lyrics translated to English from “Nessun Dorma,” the aria from Puccini’s Turandot popular in Europe as a rallying cry to encourage frontline healthcare workers during the first coronavirus wave in spring of 2020.

·      “With head held high” — Adapted from Bengali poem “ Chitto Jetha Bhayshunyo” by Indian Nobel Laureate poet Rabindranath Tagore. He wrote this as his vision of new and awakened India.

·      Golden bird (Sone ki Chidiya in Hindi) — Refers to the wealthy land of India in medieval times that made it a target for many plunderers from Central Asia.

·      Timur or Timur-lane — Turco-Mongol conqueror who mercilessly sacked ineptly defended Delhi in December of 1398. Infamous for indiscriminate massacre of a large number of city residents.

Joy Dehlavi wrote “The Sacking of Delhi, 2021” drawing from his experiences during the coronavirus spike lockdown that he spent in Delhi, India. Born in India, he now lives in the USA.

PREAMBLE TO DEATH

by Monica Korde

WE, THE PEOPLE OF INDIA, ARE DYING.

Here with only hours to spare, air 

leaving the lungs, families rush 

from hospital to hospital 

begging for a breath, for a bed 

while opulent hotel rooms 

offer a hundred covid beds 

for members of justice.

Here votes matter, deaths don’t. 

Politicians ride chariots, strut 

through reckless rallies and 

use words liberally:

“Nothing to panic. It’s all imaginary.”

“No need for masks, why worry?”

“After all, everyone has to die eventually”.

Here the gravedigger works 24-hour shifts, 

his gloves left behind to 

avoid the spade from slipping. 

It is Ramzan but he must have water before 

he goes on- turning the earth, getting the body

removing it from the makeshift ambulance 

burying it faster than he can count. 

The priest works equally—

he prays for a hundred pyres, stokes the fires, and 

this pandemic pandit of sorts walks round-the-clock 

through this burning mess

roll calling names as the flames get warm enough. 

Here the departed lie outside 

community-built crematoriums. 

No marigold, no silk, no sandalwood 

to adorn the tired bodies. 

Carefully wrapped in outrage, in anguish

they find kinship and unity

these souls on stand-by

waiting for an undignified exit. 

 

ENDLESSLY EMERGING IN BODY BAGS ON GURNEYS—ONE, TWO, THREE DEATHS PER MINUTE, OVER FOUR THOUSAND IN 24 HOURS—ON THIS DAY OF MAY 2021, WE MOURN IN THE MAKING OF THIS REPUBLIC AND QUESTION HEREBY HOW TO ADOPT, ENACT AND GIVE TO OURSELVES THIS CONSTITUTION. 

Monica Korde, is a poet from India, currently living in Belmont, California. Along with writing poems, she reads at several virtual poetry readings hosted in the Bay area and regularly co-hosts an online poetry open mic. Her poetry has appeared online on the website of San Francisco Public Library, on YouTube published by local poetry open mics, and in anthologies.